


Darkness Creeping

by Ygrain



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28033641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ygrain/pseuds/Ygrain
Summary: An account of Faramir's defence of the Fords up till his retreat over the Pelennor.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	1. Dismissed

Morning comes, or rather does not, as it did not the previous day – and probably will not till the end of Gondor's days.

The Council chamber drowns in the shadows, even the lamplight is subdued, as if the unnatural dark could suffocate the light in all its forms. Yet this time Faramir almost welcomes the darkness in which all faces look equally pale. The last night's sleep brought hardly any refreshment, as waking from the nightmares of creeping shadows was only followed by those of his father.

_"Do you wish then that our places had been exchanged?"_

In the end he gave up attempts of sleep and spent the rest of the night pacing across his room, wishing for the light that never came – and a word from his father, which did not come, either.

Only the Lord Steward summoned his captains to take counsel upon the course of defence.

Or rather, to proclaim his will, as he takes little heed of what the respective captains have to say.

Such a course of events is not unfamiliar to Faramir, yet in his weariness his father's bad mood is even harder to bear.

Ages ago, Faramir remembers, there was a man who was tossing a young boy high in the air, till both of them choked with laughter, while a woman, also laughing, was urging them unconvincingly to find a safer leisure. Where has the man gone? There seems to be no connection between him and Lord Denethor, whose eyes are equally prone to burn with fiery anger as well as glint icy cold.

_"Do you wish then that our places had been exchanged?"_

Denethor's face, stern and relentless, floats before Faramir's eyes, even as the dark eyes pierce through the others. In the dim light, no one speaks, as the Steward demands: "I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought – not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord's will." He never looks at his son, but Faramir knows.

_"I do wish indeed."_

_"So be it."_

And so he says, "I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead – if you command it." Even saying that, a tiny part of him still hopes, as ever, and yet again, receives a blow that only drives the point deeper.

"I do."

And nothing else. The worried look in Imrahil's eyes is almost like a final blow. Faramir stands up, unsure if his legs can still bear him. He bows stiffly. "Then farewell! But if I should return, think better of me!"

"That depends on the manner of your return."

And so he is dismissed from his father's presence, from his love – and soon from his own very life.

Later, he cannot recall how he walked from the chamber to the outer courtyard. The bare wood of the White Tree gently glimmers in the dusk and Faramir kneels down by the fountain for a moment. _"I would see the White Tree in flower again,"_ he thinks. _"And I would go to certain death or torture gladly, if only – "_ A shudder passes through his body and he tenses, fighting for self-control – the fight all too familiar in the past years. Out of habit, he raises his eyes to the skies but today, no light shines for a captain almost at the end of his strength.

When he rises, he still feels a bit unsteady. However, his voice is calm as always, as he addresses his adjutant: "The Lord commands that we defend the Fords and out-walls. Gather the men at the gate – volunteers only. We leave within an hour."

After all, if one is to die without love or light, there is no reason to delay. The cold he feels somewhere deep within will pass with the last heartbeat, of that he can be sure.


	2. Friends and Farewells

The city below him looks unfamiliar – even in the blackest storm, even at the dead of the night, it always retained some of its light.

Minas Anor. The Sun Tower.

_Oh, sunlight._

Standing on the walls of the highest circle, Faramir gazes at the streets consumed by darkness. The air is heavy and unmoving, yet the tips of his fingers feel cold. His mind has cleared, though – in his memory, he can see the streets sunlit again, recognizing every paving stone of the long way from the Citadel to the Gate. Every house, every turn. The City of his life. The love of his life.

Dying for one's love is not so bad, after all.

The tiny rebellious voice that points out the uselessness of this death, Faramir chooses to ignore.

Footsteps, and a tall man approaches him.

"Anborn."

"Your gear is packed, my lord. The men are readying at the Gate."

"Very well."

As they descend, Faramir feels a sudden surge of defiance. "Anborn," he says. "I want you to stay here."

"I want the sun to rise in the west," Anborn retorts without hesitation. "Wherever you go, I go, my lord."

 _"I command you,"_ Faramir almost says but then holds his tongue. If he shouts or pleads, what can he possibly say that Anborn has not already pondered? He nods his assent. After all, death today or death tomorrow – little difference.

The thought that at least to someone he matters a thing is both soothing and painful.

His men are awaiting him in grave silence but as they hail him, their voices speak of trust and courage. For them, and only for them, Faramir modulates his voice to respond in the same tones. Such trust cannot be betrayed.

Did he betray _their_ trust, as well, when he sent the Ringbearer away? _"Do you wish then –"_

If it weren't for his gloves, his fingernails would cut through the skin of his palm.

Húrin of the Keys and Imrahil have come to bid him farewell, and Mithrandir is standing nearby, concealed in his grey cloak but his eyes seeing all and through. No, there are no particular commands from the Lord Steward. No message at all. To his own surprise, Faramir feels nothing and, for a moment, is almost glad that he has gone past pain or sorrow.

Too soon, though. When Imrahil makes a little move as if he was about to embrace him, it costs Faramir all his strength to keep his head up and his face unmoved. Luckily, his uncle knows his manners and abides by the rules of public performance. No weakness to be shown before those whose lives depend on your strength.

Faramir wonders, wearily, how long that strength can last.

As he mounts his horse, his eyes are involuntarily drawn up, to the dark windows of Ecthelion's Tower. Might his father at least –

A strong hand rests on his reins next to his. Mithrandir. "Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness," he says. "You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end. Farewell!"

For a moment, Faramir looks into his eyes and the darkness around him seems less heavy, and the grip of cold recedes. "I will not," he says softly.

_I am a servant of Gondor. I know my duty._

The Gate opens and he rides into its dark mouth, his men following at his sign. No light awaits at its end, and hope has stayed behind.

How is it that wizards can read the heart's deepest desires.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf's farewell is a direct quotation from LOTR (ROTK: The Siege of Gondor)


	3. An Interlude

The men of the Osgiliath garrison are immensely relieved at their arrival and the sight of their joy sends a pang of guilt through Faramir's heart: good men abandoned at their post for the sake of delivering others, if it weren't for his father's stubbornness.

Or should he rather say that now there are even more men abandoned at their post _because of_ his father's stubbornness?

Well, at least not fully abandoned: if his father's whim did send him here, he will make the best use of himself.

_Oh, father._

For the time being, there is one little positive outcome: he has no time for dark thoughts, as he is pre-occupied with the preparations for the attack.

Long ago, after Ithilien was lost, with great labour Osgiliath was turned into the first line of defence of the City of Gondor. The ruins of the houses along the riverbank were pulled down and the ground levelled. The stone was used for improving the natural barriers in places where the bank rose steeply to prevent, or at least hinder, mass embanking. A long wall of stone runs alongside at a distance, with heightened platforms for bowmen and catapults. The strip of land between is a mass of loose rubble, offering no foothold, streaked by ditches with iron spikes and fences of pointed stakes. Hidden holes and traps await the treading feet of intruders, and the hail of stones, spears and arrows.

"Now we can man the whole length of the fortification," says captain Thorondir with a glint in his eye, "and prepare them a hearty welcome. The weapon supplies, luckily, are something we are not short of." Seeing the innumerable stacks of missiles, the heaps of boulders, the casks of oil and flammable materials, Faramir is truly impressed. Even now, at the top of the battlement, the men are piling loose stones and oil-soaked wood, to be thrown down with a single move.

Faramir returns the sneer, his spirit momentarily lightened, but soon his heart sinks low again. _The Enemy can afford to lose a host better than we to lose a company_ , he remembers his own words at the Council and, all of a sudden, he shivers with cold and staggers in mid-step. He steadies himself against the wall and looks up: nothing can be discerned in the shrouded sky but he knows: for an instant, he hears an echo of the piercing scream and feels the paralysing cold again.

"My Lord?" Thorondir's face is alarmed, and Anborn rushes to his side.

"'Tis naught but weariness," he mutters, then forces his voice more reassuring. "I have not had much sleep of late, that is all."

"Then you should rest awhile, we can still spare some time for that. My room is at your disposition," offers Thorondir. As Faramir follows him, he ponders, wearily, if now, of all the worst times, he may be ailing. There are, however, no other signs of building fever – only the inexplicable cold.

Though the captain's bed is more than simple, Faramir falls asleep almost immediately, as, for once, his tiredness keeps his memories at bay. Yet, what started as a comfortable slumber, gradually turns into a nightmare of falling into darkness, black wings stooping from above and a void opening underneath. As he wakes, soaked with sweat, his body feels numb with cold and, for a single terrifying instant, he is unable to move. He almost falls to the floor as he springs from the bed, gasping.

And then the realization dawns on him, all the weird details of his condition suddenly fitting like pieces of a big puzzle.

Faramir slowly sinks back onto the bed and sits there, unmoving, while seconds, minutes, ages pass by. When he finally makes a move, it is a long, ragged breath, and his fists clench.

Death almost certain has become death inevitable.

Strangely, what he feels is almost relief.

And defiance. Faramir of the line of Stewards will not succumb easily. There are men, his men, men of Gondor, who depend on him, and he will fight till his last breath and heartbeat not to fail them.

After some time, he lies down again. Sleep may be denied from him, yet rest he must. Were it at home, he would resort to music, but that is yet another thing he is denied. And so, with his hands laid on his chest, he gently moves his fingers on strings unseen, and in his mind he sings by. He can almost feel the warmth of the sunlit wall he was leaning against as he was learning to play an ancient Elvish hymn to the lights of the sky, and with the memory of light and warmth he drifts into a light drowse.

But serenity can never last in this world. The door opens, and Anborn's face predicts no good news. "My lord… Thorondir's scouts have returned."

Faramir sighs and gets up and his hand strums the strings one last time: a farewell to music that he will never play or hear again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faramir's reminiscence of the conversation at the Council is a direct quotation from LOTR (ROTK: The Siege of Gondor)


	4. And Fear Precedes Him

When Faramir enters the room, the air is heavy with despair. A man is kneeling on the floor, his shoulders shaking with sobs – by clothes and gear, a scout.

"A host of Mordor is approaching." Thorondir's face is dismayed, his former resolution gone. "Innumerable, he says. And there – there's – they are led by the Black Captain."

Faramir feels horror building up deep inside, its claw gripping his heart and lungs, robbing him of breath. Yet, he is the only one who can still act; the others – officers, warriors, brave men, one and all – are already paralysed by the fear that spreads even in their enemy's absence.

And he must act quickly.

Resolutely, Faramir strides across the room and raises the sobbing man to his feet. "Fear no more. Your service to Gondor shall not be forgotten." Then he slowly turns round, meeting the eyes of every single man.

"The news is grave," Faramir says in a matter-of-fact voice, " but it could have been expected. Thanks to this brave man's effort," he pats the scout's shoulder and feels it straighten a bit, "we are forewarned. Therefore, we have a chance to prepare ourselves against this Black Captain. The fear he spreads is crippling, I have felt it myself, but it shall pass. Mighty as he is, he is still but one, and can attack only one part of our defences at a time. Meanwhile, the rest must recover and make up in action. In the end, we will have him run from one end of the wall to the other like a rat. 'Think you he might have a long bare tail, as well?"

Lame as the joke is, the men nevertheless laugh. The rule of despair is broken, now they can use the remaining time to adjust their plans – and prepare the retreat, for retreat they will.

The Black Captain or not, they cannot hope to hold the fords for long.

And so they wait for the inevitable, while the dark day dissolves into the dark of night. The watchmen are straining their eyes to tell the signs of movement on the opposite bank and most of the men keep ready; only those of very cold blood are taking the last opportunity to rest.

No more rest for Faramir, though: accompanied by Anborn and his guards, he checks the positions and, above all, he speaks to his men, using all his wit, all his skill of voice and words, to pour courage into the failing hearts.

For even though the enemy cannot be seen or heard, it can be felt, as one can feel an approaching storm. The air grows thicker and heavier; the darkness deepens, till it swallows the forms and shapes outside the small circles of torchlight. Even the torches themselves burn low, as if oppressed by the darkness, and now and then they are dimmed by dark vapours – Faramir blinks, unsure if everyone can see that or if it is only his sight playing tricks; but does not dare to ask.

Finally, when the dark lies so heavy on everyone that even raising one's limbs seems difficult, Faramir interrupts his walk and climbs the battlement. He fares no better than the watchmen but it is not with his eyes that he can see now: the _coldness_ within his body knows its source as surely as a blind man can tell the position of the sun.

The sense of danger is now imminent. The men are tensed to the point of breaking, yet, blinded as they are, they can only wait.

Wait till they break.

No.

"Light the beacons," Faramir orders. After all, they can hardly reveal their position when it is already known, and crouching in the dark is of little use.

Fire arrows dig into the oil-soaked fuel in the iron baskets, placed on the tops of stakes and pillars. It takes only a few moments before the riverbank is illuminated and the waters of the Anduin reflect the pools of reddish light till, not so very far from the shore, the light is swallowed by the darkness.

The darkness that slowly moves ahead.

And then the silence dies as a solitary horn blows in alarm – and, as a response, there comes an uproar of wild voices, and a long shrill cry that freezes the hearts of friends and foes alike.


	5. Fords on Fire

And so the battle of the fords starts.

The countless floats and barges swarm across the river, each delivering a fresh cargo of yelling and screaming warriors in black. For each vessel, sunk by the catapults, there are ten more coming, for each arrowed Orc, ten more press on.

And how many more are to come, that can be only feared.

For now, the game of hide-and-seek is forsaken: torches are being lit all along and across the river. _Innumerable_ , the scout reported, yet now that the opposite bank drowns in fires, it seems like a gross underestimation.

What else can be done but try to even the score.

 _"Whatever you do, you cannot miss,"_ sneers a soldier close to Faramir before he draws the bow.

The disembarking host is under a hail of stones and arrows, and the generously sprinkled caltrops pierce even the soles of iron boots, considerably hampering both the progress and the zeal. The assault falters.

Not for long.

Suddenly, the sea of torches on the opposite bank splits, the black figures frantically crowding on each side. Someone approaches through the passage: a cloaked rider, black against the fiery background. For an instant, the enemies fall silent, and so do the strings and devices of Gondor.

The Black Captain.

The hooded head slowly turns. Even from this distance, Faramir can feel the invisible eyes piercing all and through; yet, as a coney trapped by a viper's gaze, he can do nothing but wait till the gaze hits him with full intensity.

It comes like a blow of a hammer. For a moment, Faramir can neither see nor hear: he drowns in blackness filled with malevolent hissing and cold clutches at his heart and lungs so hard that he cannot breathe.

And then it passes as the vicious eyes move on. Faramir finds himself almost on his knees, leaning with his chest against the battlement. He feels blood in his mouth: apparently, he has bitten his lip so hard that it bleeds. His hands shake.

As he straightens, though, he is the only one to remain standing; all around him, men crouch and cover their eyes. Faramir casts a quick glance over the battlement and desperately tries to get the men around him back on their feet.

The enemy is moving forward.

In the Black Captain's presence, the Orcs no longer avoid pain and injury. Their feet tread on stones and spikes alike, they throw themselves into the dikes, against the stakes. When the first lines are impaled, the others climb over the still twitching bodies. They no longer heed the missiles of the slowly reviving Gondorian defence; they move on. Soon the strip of the land between the wall and the river is covered with bodies; the dikes are levelled with bodies; bodies are piled up in heaps, smashed and pierced and scorched.

The stench of blood and bowels and the burning meat fills the still air.

And there are the first losses in the ranks of Gondor, as the Orcish archers and spearmen build their positions behind the bodies of their fallen comrades.

The front lines have reached the wall. Tree trunks and ladders are being brought, erected and climbed – and thrown down, stoned and set afire, in an endless cycle. An Orc just below Faramir receives his share of hot oil and is aflame; his shrieking voice, strangely human, for an instant sounds clear against the background of the battlesounds, and then it's gone, as another wave of attackers tramples over the body and aims for the top of the battlement.

A signal from the north end of the wall: the Black Captain has aimed his attention there and the Orcs are pouring over the wall. Faramir sends in his reserves; then the situation recurs elsewhere, and again, and again…

And then there are no more reserves left.

In the dull blackness, there is no way to tell how long the assault lasts – but Faramir knows that the defence cannot hold for long now. The next concentrated attack will break through.

Just where will it happen?

In the middle of the wall, of course, to split and further weaken the ranks of Gondor.

Which is, where Faramir stands.

The Black Captain spurs his horse and rides into the shallow water. He raises his sword and points towards the wall, and his host moves, obeying the command.

An instant before it is too late Faramir averts his eyes and shelters behind the battlement – even so, the crippling wave of dark fear trips his feet and he stumbles. Despite the nausea, he draws in enough breath to blow his horn.

 _Withdraw. To me. Withdraw_.

With relief, he hears the signal repeated.

Only a heartbeat later, Faramir, the Captain of Gondor, fights for his life and the lives of his men against the black tide, under the malevolent eyes of the Black Captain. "Gondor! To me! For Gondor!" he cries at the top of his lungs, till he is short of breath, but his men do gather to him and hold against the enemy for that short while, necessary to prevent the slaughter of the helpless.

Then the tide is checked momentarily, as the men from the wall's ends strengthen the centre and the horsemen, stationed in the garrison, make a sortie at the nick of the time.

Relieved from the worst of the fight, Faramir breathes heavily, heat and chill pulsing through his body. His horse is brought and as he mounts, he checks the familiar faces. Anborn is still at his side but half of his guards are missing. But there is no time for sorrow, the enemies are flooding in over the wall and Faramir issues the command for retreat. Then he goes over the faces again and stops at the youngest.

"Haldor. Bring the message to the Lord Steward that the fords have fallen and we are retreating to the Causeway Forts."

"Anything else, my lord?"

"No."

After all, what else could be said at the beginning of the end.


	6. A Fool's Hope

The retreat from the Osgiliath garrison is a tiresome journey through the ruins; a neverending match of besetting the enemy troops, and avoiding being beset themselves. Yet, the men of Gondor still march on: the vanguard of the black army is disorganized, and though the attacks of small Orc companies are a hindrance, they do not poise a real danger.

Until the Black Captain appears again, that is.

Faramir is deeply worried. Though still exhausted by the strain of his contest with the enemy's will, he would much rather know of the Black Captain's whereabouts than wait helplessly for another strike. Despite Anborn's protest, he remains with the rearguard, and so he soon observes a change in the attack pattern: the Orcs are accompanied by a growing number of the Haradrim.

The arrival of mounted companies is only a matter of time.

Other newcomers are even faster, though, for the time being, they refrain from action.

Faramir can feel the nazgûl presence high above like icy claws gripping his nape – yet, after another mile, he realizes that one can become accustomed even to that.

The dark mist obscuring his sight every now and then is much more inconvenient.

So they proceed along the road, gradually slowing down under the constant attacks, until they stop, painstakingly close to the Forts. The lights on the battlement and on the great bridge, arching above the road and connecting the two towers, are almost at hand.

The Haradrim are closer, though, and the nazgûl even more. Faramir can feel the cold pressing on and the growing despair of his men. The Forts garrison is too small to be of substantial help; nothing can be hoped for from that direction.

Yet, as it sometimes happens, hope may come unexpected.

Those fools from the Forts do make a sortie – more numerous than Faramir would have thought wise or possible – and the biggest fool rides far ahead, shining white in the dark.

"Mithrandir," Faramir echoes the men's joyful cries. Suddenly, his head feels light again and his vision clears, only the cold dwelling in the fingertips remains – little nuisance, or so it might seem, with the pressure from the nazgûl gone.

The wizard smiles cheerfully as they meet. "I thought I might be of use here, together with these men from Cair Andros who have come to strengthen our forces."

News both good and bad.

Faramir leads his men to the twin towers. The broad road here narrows into the two passages under the bridge, barred by a portcullis at either end. Safe – truly, safe? – for a little while, there is a pause for dressing wounds and organising defence once again.

And, for good or bad, there is time to talk.

With his bushy brows frowning, Mithrandir listens to the account of the previous events, and namely of every single detail of the Black Captain.

"Who or what is he?" Faramir dares to ask, for they are conferring behind the closed door. "The cold and fear he spreads is like that – that – " he cannot finish, as only the thought of the word brings back the cold, and the pain. He is unwell; though seated more or less comfortably, he cannot relax and constantly feels as if on the verge of falling.

"The Lord of the Nazgûl," the wizard answers absent-mindedly, "as you have probably guessed yourself." Then his eyes focus again. "There is nothing to be done but wait for his move, and be ready. It seems that he has chosen to stay behind and use other hands to toil for him. When he comes –"

"Will you be able to withstand him?"

"I do not know."

Not the answer Faramir has hoped for, and Mithrandir smiles and reaches for the young man's hand. His touch is warm and Faramir feels a little better, as if some strength has been poured from the wizard's hand to his failing body. With his spirit higher, he blurts out the question that has been on his mind ever since: "Does my father send a word?"

Mithrandir pats his hand and says with mild rebuke: "Of course not. What did you expect? The day he puts aside his stubbornness the Sun and the Moon shall shine side by side."

_Not expected, but hoped for. Of course._

_But still._

Hurt once again, Faramir closes his eyes – a grave mistake, for the room immediately swirls around him and only the wizard's arms prevent him from falling. The dark eyes are worried, and filled with raising suspicion. "Rest, Faramir. Rest a little."

"I cannot." _And I feel I cannot explain._ "I cannot afford to rest."

Unconvinced, the wizard still eyes him.

"Mithrandir. I am weary as I have never been. My strength is almost spent. If I lie down now, I will not rise again. I must continue as I am. Besides –"

Outside, the trumpets sound their warning.

"Besides, the question of my rest is now purely hypothetical," Faramir finishes as they both rush out to see what fate has prepared for them.


	7. In the Fort Ruins

Another distant explosion shakes the wall under their feet.

"They are bringing down the outer walls," Mithrandir observes. An arrow hits the battlement right next to his hand but he does not even flinch. "The Forts are not designed for rear-defence. You must time your retreat carefully to avoid being besieged."

Faramir nods. His men cannot rest as the onslaught never ceases but it can be felt that they are not under a concentrated attack – yet. "I have already given some thought to that. We will start with evacuating the injured."

The wall shakes again, and the rumble sounds louder. Standing by Faramir's side, Anborn twists his mouth but says nothing. His quiver is almost empty – another reason why they should not delay; they are almost out of ammunition.

"Mithrandir. There is something I have to ask of you." The bushy brows raise and Faramir continues. "I cannot command you but it would be a great help if you could accompany the wounded. I can spare only a few men as an escort, and since – "

"And since the Black Captain has decided to stay behind before the way is cleared, I am not truly needed here, am I? Very well. I will do as you ask."

 _When you are here, that dark thing within recedes_. "Thank you," Faramir says and watches the shimmering white figure disappear in the dark. Then he turns to his adjutant. "Anborn, we should – "

He never finishes.

A deafening explosion shakes the fortification and tears the bridge apart, sending down a mass of dust and stone; the men who were positioned there – the men –

" _Oh Valar_ ," Faramir sighs. Turning on his heel, he makes for the bridge entrance where shaken men help the survivors.

And he never reaches it: the very part of the wall that he has just left collapses with another deep rumble and a blast of fire.

The next thing Faramir knows is that he is sprawled on the ground, blood trickling from his scratched brow, but except for some more bruises relatively unharmed. The great gaping hole in the fortification swarms with Orcs; bugles and horns call in alarm as men are gathering to stop the black torrent. Raising to his feet, Faramir turns to address Anborn…

… who is lying on the ground only a few feet from him, the lower part of his body buried under stones.

A cry of helpless rage soars to the dark sky, and then the Captain of Gondor must forsake a friend to lead the defence of his men.

Shedding the black Orc blood does not ease the pain at all.

Finally, the last Orc is killed and no more dare to enter the opening.

 _'The wall of men is stronger than the wall of stone'_ , Faramir recalls, yet the name of the author has slipped his memory. _On the other hand, the enemy need not hurry, there are so many of them that they can just wear us down._

With the enemy pushed back, however, he can at least organize the retreat.

Mithrandir approaches him, his great horse following him without bidding as a faithful comrade. "Have you not changed your mind?" the wizard asks softly.

 _Your life is too precious to be risked here._ "Go with the wounded."

For an instant, Faramir sees himself through Mithrandir's eyes: the face, pale and strained under the mask of dust and blood, and large eyes, overly bright with exhaustion.

Unexpectedly, the old wizard draws him into a short but tight embrace. "Fare well, dear boy," he whispers.

Yesterday's Faramir would have been deeply hurt by such a display of affection from a stranger instead of the one who should have said these words in the first place. Today's Faramir only nods goodbye and returns to his duties.

Then, as the last of the gravely wounded are being brought to the wains, he catches the sight of a familiar face.

"Anborn."

The injured man breathes laboriously, his face twisting with pain. But his eyes are clear and he strives to speak. Faramir bends over to him and takes his hand – surely he can spare this little time, can't he? – to say goodbye.

"You should have stayed in Minas Tirith when I told you to. Rest, Anborn, we will get you there."

Anborn faintly smiles. "… ain't fair," he says, his voice barely audible. "How convenient… that in this dark no-one can see that you've meddled with the sun."

Faramir hears a strange sound, and a second later he realizes it has been produced by his own mouth. Laughter. "Promise you won't tell anyone."

But Anborn's eyes are already closing with weariness. Before he passes out, Faramir catches his last words: "I wish… I could see the sun again."

"You will, may the Valar grant that," Faramir whispers in his ear and kisses Anborn's brow – and then his time runs out as the wains are ready to depart.

_May the Valar grant that at least you can see the sun again, when I will not._

The enemies are organizing for another attack. Faramir mounts his horse and then blows his horn: a signal for the long journey at the sword's edge to begin.


	8. The Last Breath

Of all the nightmares of Faramir's life, the retreat from the Causeway Forts is the one he will never forget.

The world is shrouded in a dark veil, the sounds reach his ears hushed and distorted. Black shapes creeping at the edge of his vision make him flinch every now and then. With the sickening taste of blood in his mouth almost ever-present, he still holds in the saddle, still wields his sword.

And he still maintains the control of the retreat.

The rearguard is almost constantly engaged in skirmishes and, grossly outnumbered, they are pushed back by stronger attacks which break only at the back lines of the mainguard. The wounded are then sent forward, and the march continues.

And so they proceed, step by step, across the fields of the Pelennor.

Across what used to be fields and orchards, farms and homesteads. The hooves and feet now stomp on the soil that has just woken to the false promise of spring – the spring that will never come, drowned in the darkness.

A part of him wonders, impassionately, why it is that he still fights on. They can never make it to the City and their lines are dwindling with every step. His strength, his will, his resolution – all running out, cannot overcome the inevitable.

The streams of faint torches approaching from all directions dazzle before his eyes. Faramir does not know how long remains to the uncertain safety of the City Walls: a few miles becomes as far as never.

Yet, as long as they proceed…

_And as long as I breathe…_

Their progress has come to a halt: the fiery torrents have reached and grasped them in their tentacles. With loud thunder, the Haradrim cavalry charges to the shrill call of the nazgûls' deadly song. The defence line has broken, the retreating army is scattered into isolated groups. There is no power that could regroup them, and certainly not Faramir's hoarse faltering voice.

Nonetheless, he still tries.

And as a result, he draws attention.

A Haradrim champion separates from a group of cavalrymen and spurs his horse towards Faramir. Tall and well built he is, and undoubtedly fresh – a difficult match even for one at full strength. Faramir's own strength hardly suffices to keep the enemy at bay, and if it weren't for his chain mail, he would have been bleeding within seconds.

Weariness presses on his cold heavy limbs; yet, as one weary never ceases to breathe, Faramir never ceases to fight. Fight has become as natural as breathing. The movement of the sword arm, the block of the shield, the nudging of his war horse, come out of sheer instinct gained in the long years of practice and warfare. There is no place for a clear mind, no place for a swordmaster's finery, only blows delivered and blows deflected, eternal as the movement of the sea.

_As long as I breathe…_

Then there comes a sudden blow in his left shoulder, followed by piercing pain, strangely acute to his muffled senses. Faramir sways in the saddle and strives for balance – in vain. The fall seems very, very long, as if he were sliding down a long slope towards calm and dark waters. He feels neither cold nor warmth anymore.

No more pain, no more strain.

No more cold, wounding words.

With breathing out, Faramir finally yields to the darkness. Its embrace is surprisingly merciful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My greatest thanks to Thanwen for betaing and friendship.

**Author's Note:**

> The conversation at the Council, as well as the reminiscence of the debate with Denethor on the previous day, is a direct quotation from LOTR (ROTK: The Siege of Gondor)


End file.
